Conversation with a Dead Man
by Angela6257
Summary: Callen has faced a lot of ghosts over the summer. Maybe after a conversation with one particular phantom he can find some measure of peace. My attempt at a fix-it for the finale.


_So the season 3 finale left me with a lot of questions, the main one being-how in the heck will the powers that be resolve that cliffhanger? How do we get Callen out of the hot water sure to come over what looked like a deliberate and quite cold-blooded shooting? With the huge emphasis placed on secrecy and the team not revealing their own identies, even if we do get Callen out of that how water how can he go on working as an undercover operative? You know that video went viral approximately 2.2 seconds after it aired. And if that letter of resignation makes it to Granger, Callen won't be around to lift it and retrieve it-and you know darned well Granger will be thrilled to accept it. So what happens with Hetty? I'm a pretty big fan of the team dynamic just like it is, so having Callen take over as operations manager and Sam move up to team leader and Kensi move up to senior agent...well, as good as that all sounds it isn't what I want to see happen._

_And thus was born this fic._

_I have to give huge thanks to imahistorian (Mel) and MioneAlterEgo (Jenn). It was over a fabulous lunch and even better conversation that the idea for this fic was born, and in the weeks since then when the words dried up and the creative tank was empty, they provided plenty of encouragement and inspiration. _

_Disclaimer: To my dismay, I still own nothing and no one. Darn it._

* * *

Callen took a deep breath, allowing the stale air inside the tiny cell to settle around him like a cloak. He'd been called cold, even icy at times, his lack of reaction both physical and emotional leading some to speculate that he was incapable of normal human responses. But the ring of sweat around his hairline belied that theory. The temperature at Guantanamo Bay, commonly known as Gitmo, stayed a pleasant 70 to 90 degrees every day in the year, but at the end of summer in a windowless room made of cement block, the heat grew blisteringly oppressive very early in the day and remained that way until night dropped it into something just less than sweltering.

He wished rather desperately for a cold drink. A beer, maybe, or even one of those fruity, tropical drinks that Nell sometimes favored when the team went out to a club. Hell, he'd gladly sock back one of Deeks' green teas or Kensi's strange health concoctions.

Well, maybe not "The Woody".

He snorted a little in remembrance at the expression on Deeks' face as he'd pulled a fully formed grape stem out of his glass, but then his own face settled back into grim lines as familiar features materialized out of the darkness in the far corner of the cell. For a long moment, he stared in silence at the other man's face. He realized that although he'd spent only a few hours in the presence of Marcel Janvier, he'd never forget the cruel lines and sharpened features of the man, better known around OSP as "the Chameleon". His eyes settled on the puckered scar near the other man's mouth, and his own lips tightened. Even more than a cold drink or any other amenity, he wished that he'd killed the other man with that bullet. How many people ever survived a round from an automatic weapon to the face? How many survived and used their second chance at life to end it for so many others?

_Renko. Hunter._

He pushed thoughts of his murdered colleagues, his _friends_ away, filed them somewhere in the back of his brain where he could take them out later and savor them. Grieve them. Find some way to move on to what was left. For now he focused on the face just across the cell from him. He had things he wanted to say.

It wouldn't be the first time this long, hot summer he'd had a conversation with a ghost.

Mostly it'd been Renko. He'd known Renko the longest, had spent more time in ops with him than anyone else at NCIS with the exceptions of Sam and Kensi. It made sense that he'd shown up most often. Renko had developed the very bad habit since his own untimely death of popping up in Callen's peripheral vision, tossing off a pithy comment or one-liner, usually irreverent and completely inappropriate. The first time had been when Callen had watched coverage of Renko's funeral. He hadn't been allowed to attend the funeral in person, of course. But Eric had gotten video coverage, and Nell had made sure it had been forwarded to him. So he'd sat alone in a darkened room, watching as Renko's grief-stricken parents faced a steel-grey coffin draped with an American flag. The cameras had been discrete; no agents or OSP employees in sight. But he'd known they were there. They wouldn't have missed it.

"Hard to believe, but Kensi's crying like a baby." He'd turned in shock at the familiar voice, and Renko had been sitting in the corner behind him. "Not so hard to believe that Eric is too." Renko grinned at him. "I think Deeks is actually making a move. At a _funeral._ Masterful." He paused in appreciation, then snickered a little. "Just not sure if it's on Kens or Eric."

"It's Kensi," said Callen slowly, sure he was losing his mind. Not only was he talking to someone who wasn't really there, he was taking everything said at face value.

"Ah well." Renko sighed gustily. "I'm not around anymore, so I guess that door is open."

Callen closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them again, Renko was gone.

But it hadn't been long before he popped up again, and it happened several times over the long summer. The last time he'd seen Renko had been on the flight over to Cuba. He'd been on a military transport, seated between two burly military guards. Renko had suddenly been sitting directly over from him, trademark smirk directed squarely across the aisle.

"You know, Gitmo is for traitors. I'm not sure a plain old murderer really belongs there."

Neither of the military guards had even turned to look when Callen responded quietly. He supposed their military training kept them from reacting even when an apparently crazy guy started talking to himself. "Everything associated with this case is considered both classified and a threat to national security. Homeland security intervened. No prison. No public trial."

The smirk deepened. "Go straight to jail, do not pass go, and definitely do not collect $200." And with that parting shot, Renko faded away, and Callen was left staring at the gunmetal grey of the interior of the transport.

Hunter had popped in more sporadically, but that wasn't surprising. Their relationship had been complicated at best, and he'd long believed her motives were sometimes suspect. But they'd been on the same team, fighting for the same side all in the name of the greater good, and her death had been a brutal blow. He'd been glad to see her when she showed up suddenly one warm summer day, eyeing the small darkened room he'd been resting in, trademark smirk in place. He'd had several visits from Renko by then, and her appearance was a bit of a welcome relief. A silent relief, anyway. She'd never spoken to him in any of her visits, and he supposed that might be an indicator that both ghosts were actually creations of his own mind. He'd never been able to predict what she was going to say or do when she was alive.

But now he was staring at another ghost, and his jaw tightened. Janvier's eyes stared back into his own, no emotion visible.

"Well, well, well. Fancy meeting you here. Thought you'd seen the last of me, I'll bet." Callen allowed himself the tiniest hint of a smile, head cocked to one side as he continued. "Can I just say I'm glad you were wrong? I'm really actually thrilled to see you here. In this place." He took a deep breath, then pushed himself to his feet. Janvier watched his every move, features blank and eyes emotionless. "Never thought I'd say that—that I'm glad to see you. But here we are."

He moved closer to the motionless face, suspended there in the darkness. "When I killed you, I thought I'd feel something. Some kind of relief, maybe, or even victory. But it was nothing. There was nothing. It didn't feel over. But this?" He spread a hand out, indicating the grey concrete of the walls. "This feels over. Finally." Callen sighed heavily. "It's a good feeling."

"Of course, it's not just this cell. It's everything that happened after you checked out." He returned to his seat. "But before we get to that part, we need to review a little past history. Let me tell you a story, M. Janvier."

"See, a long time ago, I had a family. A mother and a sister. They were taken away from me. First one, then the other." His mouth twisted, a bitter look in his eye. "I was too young to know, too young to do anything about it. Just a little boy. But it changed something in me. Then I went through a series of foster homes. I was….well, let's just say I was a difficult kid to deal with, and some of the foster families I was placed with really tried. Most didn't. That changed me even more."

Callen began to pace the cell, from one corner diagonally to the other. "I don't let many people in. I don't form attachments, or at least, not easily. For all intents and purposes, the only people I've let in, the only family I've really had was my team." He stopped in the center of the room, stared into that blank face. "But then, you know that, don't you? You understood my 'weakness'. Used it to your benefit." He stepped forward, worked hard to keep his voice level. "Killed them off, hurt them as a lesson to me."

He thought he saw emotion in Janvier's eyes then. A hint of something. Triumph, maybe, or even glee. It caused acid to boil through his veins, and he swallowed hard as he forced himself to relax, to go on. He knew the end result would make it all worthwhile. "But here's the part you didn't know: I identified your weakness at the same time. My team, my _feelings_ may be a…" He struggled for the right words, wanting to wipe the gleam of victory from the other man's eyes. "…a liability. But they're also my strength. Because along with becoming a family, with the connections we've forged, they provide me with something else. Loyalty. And that's something that a person like you can never fully understand."

Callen thought he saw confusion in the other man's gaze then and perhaps a hint of anger, and he paused a moment, savored it, before he continued his explanation. "Because loyalty isn't really in your repertoire, is it? You don't understand it, so it has no value to you. You don't rule your little empire through loyalty. You do it through fear, through brutality and ruthlessness." His lips curled into a sneer. "And through money. What you imagine is your power, your strength…well, that's what actually did you in."

"Oh, wait, I'm sorry—were you under the impression that was me?" Callen found he could smile now. He turned and retrieved the primitive wooden stool from the corner, then moved it to the center of the room. He sat down facing Janvier once more, watching him carefully. "Sure, it was me who pulled the trigger. Those were my bullets. My gun. But what it _wasn't_ was my idea. At least, not entirely." He was able to smile more freely now, maybe even smirk at his one-time nemesis. "That's what happens when you're part of a team. There's always someone to help you out, even when what you're doing is…questionable, at best."

"You on the other hand…." Callen shook his head sadly. "Boy, you really can't pick 'em, can you? First the team that I took down almost single-handedly, then your big gun, your power player…really, did you think we wouldn't figure it out? Did you honestly believe that he was going to fool everyone at NCIS? His actions have been inexplicable verging on ridiculous from the first time we met him, but there at the end…well, let's just say only an idiot would have been fooled by how he handled himself. When he urged us to go ahead and make the trade even after we found out you'd already sold the information to Tehran, when he actually used the words 'no turning back', that pretty well solidified everything for us. He works for the government. He should have known that kind of haste was a dead give away. _You_ may not have realized it, but he should have remembered that nothing in government moves that fast. Once we knew you'd already given our guy away, there was absolutely no reason not to rethink the trade. And he didn't want to take thirty seconds to mull things over. That may not have been his first mistake, but it was certainly his worst. We'd figured him out well before then, but that was the icing on the proverbial cake."

"Now, proving it…that was something different altogether. Taken at face value, there was nothing intrinsically wrong with his actions. Maybe he made some mistakes, but his intentions were good. At least, that's the explanation he could have given if he'd been confronted outright. Assuming he bothered to explain himself, anyway. But we needed something concrete, something he couldn't explain away. And we knew he was being careful, especially around the power players at NCIS. He had Vance watching him in DC, Hetty and even myself here in LA. So we needed a way to remove the power players, make him feel like he was indestructible. And you…" Callen's grin was free and easy now. "You dropped the perfect plan right into our hands."

"See, what you didn't understand is that when you rule through fear or brutality or money, all your opponent has to do is counter with _more_ fear or brutality or money. Which is exactly what we did with one…." he took a deep breath, making the moment last, "Alessandro Laureati." His lips quirked as the expression in the other man's eyes changed, darkened. "I can see you're familiar with the name. You should be. He was fairly high up in your organization, wasn't he? High up enough that he was all set to put everything into play that day in the park. You might be surprised it only took a few hours in the boat shed to cause old Alex to spill the whole story."

"I won't even tell you what we used for leverage. Suffice it to say that it was only a fraction of what we would have bargained to gain the upper hand. And gain it we did." He leaned back, enjoying himself now. "He told us everything. About the news crews, the visibility of the park. Plenty of time for us to change the plan around. Make some substitutions. Get our own people in place. The news crew? All agents. The people in the park? All agents. You missed me being arrested, but the police crew that took me out? I'm sure you can guess that they were ours too. The only reactions that were genuine were Sam's and Deeks'. We had to make it look authentic to your buddy Granger, so he'd believe it when Hetty resigned. Kensi got to be in on it in order to pronounce you dead, which is only fair since the last time we had an inside operation she was the only one left out."

"I am sorry you had to miss it, but we figured you probably wouldn't go along willingly. So you had to be removed from the equation, and tranquilizer bullets seemed the way to go. The first one that hit you knocked you out. The rest were just for show. Fortunately Eric knew enough about stunt work and explosives to rig that jacket especially for this op." Callen shook his head a little. "Some day I'll have to ask that guy if there's anything he _can't_ do."

"But let's get back to the story. You may be wondering why the elaborate masquerade? Why we went to so much trouble?" He got to his feet again, moved closer as his voice lowered. "Because we knew Granger was involved, and that he'd allowed Hunter and Renko to die. Allowed you to murder them. And there was no way in hell he was going to get away with it. So I was 'arrested' and Hetty 'resigned', and then he was top dog. And like the fool that he was, he let it go to his head. His weakness, as we all knew, was arrogance. Didn't take three months before we took him down in an undercover sting operation trying to sell information to the highest bidder. With some help from an old friend from DC, we got everything we needed." He took two steps sideways, laid a hand on the east wall. "He's two cells over from this one now, and hopefully he'll have plenty of time to contemplate the error of his ways."

"As for you…" Callen turned and leaned one shoulder against the same wall, "I noticed you haven't had much to say. Oh, wait, I forgot—that's because you can't. You apparently hit your head on the floor of the van just hard enough to move that bullet a fraction of an inch, which was just enough to permanently inhibit your ability to speak. Which means for the rest of your long, miserable life you'll be stuck in this cell on this island, unable to speak, unable to talk your way out of trouble, unable to recruit anyone to your cause. Unable to lay hands on any of your money." His lips quirked. "Which, by the way, was mysteriously distributed to many….._many_ charitable organizations around the world. Can't imagine how that might have happened."

Callen took a deep breath then, a breath that felt freer and lighter than any he'd had since Renko had gone down in front of his eyes, starting a chain of events that had lead ultimately to him standing in this very room, staring at a dead man. "You're a ghost now, Janvier. You're not a real man anymore. And that's just exactly the way it should be. As for me….I've got the rest of my life to live." He tipped two fingers to the other man, grinning at him as he prepared to leave.

But as he turned to exit the room he found himself frozen in place, just for a moment. Hunter stood on one side of the door, Renko on the other. They both smiled at him, gently and maybe a little sadly, before they slowly faded away. And this time Callen somehow knew that they were really gone for good. His ghosts were really and truly gone.

He walked forward and banged on the door, and it was immediately opened by a military guard. He walked out into the breezy sunshine, raised his head and closed his eyes as he took another deep breath, listening for the sound of the door slamming heavily behind him.

"Feel better now?"

He opened his eyes, then slowly turned his head to contemplate his intelligence analyst. "You didn't have to come, Nell. I would have been fine."

"I wanted to," she insisted, just as she'd done every time they'd argued about it prior to boarding the transport. She took a step closer to him. "I've always wanted to see Cuba."

He raised an arm to indicate the camp. "You call this 'seeing Cuba'?"

"Sure! Beautiful scenery, all the amenities, practically on the beach." She tilted her head to one side, grinning cheekily at him. "What more could a girl want?"

He moved toward her, curved one arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. "We've got a little time before the transport takes off. How about we let you see a slightly more pleasant side of Cuba? I know this great little place on the outskirts of Havana. They make the best arroz con pollo you've ever had."

Nell smiled up at him. "Sounds like the perfect plan."

It had been a long, hot summer. A miserable summer in many ways. It hadn't really been quite as simple as what he'd described to Janvier. There had been trips to DC, difficult conversations with the Director—because after all, Vance hadn't really wanted to believe Granger had been a traitor, with all that implied—and the other NCIS operatives as well as SecNav himself, and the plans that were made had been intricate and complicated. He'd walked a fine line all summer, trying to help in the operation as much as possible without Granger getting so much as a whiff of his continued existence, much less his presence at OSP. The one lucky break had been the decision that Nell would be his liason with the more active members of the op. He knew the rest of the team had been under heavy scrutiny by Granger as well as the remnants of Janvier's thugs, but no one suspected the petite analyst would be involved in any kind of covert operation. And they'd grown close during that time, he and Nell, and developed a rather special relationship between them, one that he'd had no intention of furthering until Nell had taken matters into her own hands and kissed him one night over warm apple pie and moonlight.

She'd been the only one who knew the real purpose of this visit. The only one to whom he'd felt able to talk to about his ghosts. Sam and his family were on an extended vacation, and Kensi and Deeks were wrapped up in themselves and their ridiculous refusal to acknowledge their own feelings for each other, so it'd been easy to tell them he was checking on security to personally ensure that Janvier had no chance of escape. Hetty had eyed him silently for a long time when he'd told her, and he wasn't sure what she believed or how much she'd figured out. Knowing her and how well she knew _him_, she'd probably had a pretty clear idea why he'd really come although she hadn't said anything aloud. But after he'd revealed the nature of this visit, Nell had stubbornly insisted on accompanying him. He'd argued vehemently that she'd no business tagging along to Cuba, but he was glad now that he'd finally given in. It was better with her here. Now not only did he have closure on one of the most significant episodes of his life, he'd have some pleasant memories to bring home with him.

And he deserved some pleasant memories after a long day spent talking to a dead man.


End file.
